


Piece the Shards Together

by Lizardlicks



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bulges and Nooks, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Past Rape/Non-con, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-07 23:47:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1918719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizardlicks/pseuds/Lizardlicks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They took him, and hollowed him out; took his loyalty and his pride, and they broke it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Piece the Shards Together

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Niji_Hitomi_Iscariot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niji_Hitomi_Iscariot/gifts).



You are tired, exhausted down to your bones, and achy as fuck, and the last thing you want to do is play bleatbeast wrangler to a bunch of new bloods.  Taking down that subjuggalator was hell.  No one predicted the extra muscle on a minor blueblood dignitary’s transport.  Really, you should count yourself lucky that there were so few casualties and a lot of defectors to add to the ranks of this stupid, so-called rebellion (which is looking less like the desperate last stand it started out as, and more like a thing that might plausibly succeed), but holy shit all you want to do is dive face first into a pod of sopor (you’ve got actual sopor again, oh god, the last supply raid gave you something _useful_ ).

So when Dereth, one of your- lieutenants is the word your brain supplies, even if there is no real official ranking (holy shit, this has gotten big enough to need some sort of organization)- when he approaches you, grim faced with his mouth set into a tight line, and informs you that “there’s something you need to see,” you have to fight the urge to sit on the floor and kick your legs like an indolent wiggler in need of a nap.  He beckons, then marches ahead without looking to see if you follow (you do, of course- this is your on-going disaster, and damn you if you aren’t going to shoulder all the responsibility that goes with it).  The place he leads you to looks like it might have been the officers’ quarters, though there are no officers left, just some pretty blue stains in the ship’s corridors.

He stops by one of the larger doors, opens his mouth like he wants to tell you something then thinks better of it and closes it again.  Finally he settles on crossing his arms and sort of tilting his head at the door (he’s got a scrape surrounded by a dark bruise over one eye that’s slowly weeping green blood, and you want to tell him to stop fucking around and go get it taken care of before you sternly remind yourself that you are not anyone’s lusus, and your crew is more than capable of handling their own selves).

“I... don’t really know what to describe here, so you better just look for yourself.”

You roll your eyes.  “Dramatic much?”

He uncrosses his arms to throw his hands up in a huff.  “Just go look, dude!”

“Okay, fine, but there better be some really mind-boggling shit behind this door,” you say as you slap your hand down over the operating panel.  “I mean we’re talking pirouetterrors dancing on top of trunkbeast levels of crazy here, because... I...”

The words die in your throat as you turn to face the interior of the room.  Your first impression is purple, which it shouldn’t be; seadwellers fins don’t color in that deeply and you can’t see his eyes from here.  It’s only in the next moment that you realize it’s because of the unmistakable streak of color in his hair (it should be shorter, why isn’t it--).  The zig-zag horns are so disturbingly familiar that a brutal shock of nostalgia drop kicks you in your feelings.  The cognitive disconnect only saves you from a complete break down until he finally raises his face (there’s a collar around his neck and it’s chaining him to a pailing platform, oh god) to see who’s intruding on his prison.  

“...Kar?”

 

* * *

 

You have no idea what happened to most of your wrigglerhood friends.  Some of them stayed with you (Sollux, whose other option was becoming a ship battery, Tavros and Terezi, both cullbait even as functional as they were), while others fell off the map completely, presumably having been culled or gone on with the rest of their lives unhindered.  Eridan you thought was in that last category.  Almost seven sweeps ago, you had sent you a last exchange of messages on Trollian.  He was damn well over the moons with having been accepted into the officers’ program (but really, where else is a seadweller going to go?) and you had told him you were going into threshecutioner training (a lie that made you bite the inside of your cheek until you tasted your own foul blood just so you would have an excuse for the tears clouding your vision).  

After that you went off the grid.  Spent sweeps in hiding, even more slowly (and somewhat unwittingly and unwillingly) gathering a following.   No matter how much momentum that the movement gained, there was always a part of you which dreaded the day you would meet him again.  It was only a matter of time, you reasoned, before you had to face Eridan again as a rebel fighting against his beloved Empire and all it stood for. You thought it would be the day when your sickles would spill the blood of a friend.  

 _This_ is-

This is _worse_.

They took him, and hollowed him out; took his loyalty and his pride, and they broke it.  You didn’t need much help getting him away from that room or taking back to your own vessel.  He followed you as soon as you had found the means to get that awful collar off, silent and head bowed like a willing sacrifice.  Something sour and fierce woke up in you.  

 

* * *

 

Eridan flinches and whines pathetically when you take a cool, wet rag to his gills, but he leans into the touch like he’s starved for it.  Someone in the recent past had gotten the bright idea to put piercings in his gills and use that to anchor fine chains to.  Didn’t matter that he’d already been crushed into obedience with mental conditioning, they had decided an extra measure of control was needed to guarantee cooperation.  The result was his gills (he fucking BREATHES with those things, you can’t get over the grinding horror of it) became inflamed from the irritation.

Hot rage coils around the nausea in your guts as you wash down the holes.  He had been openly sobbing by the time you had gotten the first side free of the rings, and even now he still hiccups every few breaths.  He’s- okay no, he isn’t warm, probably very few trolls could feel warm to you unless they were on the edge of psionic burnout.  But you’ve held Terezi’s hand, and you can still recall the time long ago when Gamzee practically suffocated you in a hug.  You have a good idea what a seadweller is supposed to feel like, and Eridan is definitely running a fever.

He’s sick, hurt, and the way he keeps bumping his head against your shoulder makes your chest cinch tight with pity.  That would be fine, absolutely great and dandy if this was staying pale, but for some ungodly reason your bulge picked this time to let your brain know _he smells really fucking good_.  The sheer material of the clothes they had him dress in- if you can even call the stupid gausy pants and shirtless getup that- doesn’t help any.  It leaves very little to the imagination.  He was kept controlled, but not sedentary, and you feel like some sort of sleazy weirdo for noticing he still has a nice figure.  

You finish dabbing at his sides, and just sort of awkwardly pat him to let him know you’re finished and he can stop squeezing your thigh now-‘kay-thanks.  It takes him a few seconds to register it anyway.  He turns his head to look at you without breaking contact from your shoulder and hums questioningly.

“You’re- ahum-” Wow that came out awfully high pitched.  You clear your throat and try again.  “You’re all cleaned up.  You can- I mean you should get some rest.  You look tired.”

He looks drugged.  His stare is flat and glassy, and he keeps sort of half heartedly pawing at you then abruptly terminating the action.  His fins flick at you lazily.  Acknowledgement, or...  what?

“We got sopor,” you press on when he doesn't give further response.  “Not a lot, but I can set up a ‘coon for you and go-”

“NO!”

His claws dig stinging lines in your chest when they tighten in your shirt for one panicked half-second, then he lets go and smooths the area meekly.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I...  please don’t... don’t go.  Please.”  He presses his face against your neck.  Fuck.

“No, hey, shoosh.  It’s cool, I’m not going anywhere.”

You don’t know where to put your hands.  Your brain is screaming at you to hug him, hold him, wrap him up and keep him, make him _yours_ -

That would be a bad idea.  The worst of ideas.  You settle for patting his back and sort of half-heartedly shooshing him again.  The sound doesn’t feel right.  He still tenses, like he’s expecting some kind of retaliation for the scratch, and you’re torn between giving in and devouring his helplessness, and finding the nearest hole to bury yourself in.  Or maybe tearing a hole in the universe via pure concentrated fury.  That last one feels right, if only you could use it to burn a path through to the Imperial flagship itself.

A growl rattles out before you have a chance to stop it, and he whines and tries to shrink into a smaller ball (he’s already taking up as little space as he’s going to and he’s still bigger than you). You can feel his breath against your skin as he continues pleading softly.  When you were kids, even at his most desperate, Eridan still had his pride.  He never begged.  You realize how god damned fucked you are when you press your mouth to his to silence it.

Eridan goes limp.  He makes one soft, drawn whine against your mouth.  It’s not a happy sound.

Abruptly you drop him and flail-scuttle backwards to put space between you.  What the HELL were you-

“Don’t...”  He’s reaching toward you, even though you just... did _something_ he didn’t like or want.  It’s as good an effect as a splash of cold water on your libido.

“Why?  Eridan, I’m... I don’t-” _I don’t want you to hurt anymore_ , is what you want to say but your body is under some serious mood whiplash having gone from horny to horrified in under three seconds.  What comes out instead is, “I should go.  Let you get some rest, okay?”

You weren’t expecting the way Eridan does this thing where it’s like he’s caving in.  Curled in a huddle on the floor, he starts to shiver.

“Karkat, I _need_ you.” He chokes; sniffles really loud in the quiet of your block as he starts to cry again.  You have hecked up, you have hecked up so bad. “Fuck me.”

“What!?”  Your shriek may have just entered “can only be heard by barkbeasts” range.

“Please,” he hisses as another full body shiver courses through him.  “I can’t... can’t fuckin’ think, it _hurts_ \- ngh, make it stop!”

If trolls could die of too much pity you think you would keel over right now.  It’s getting hard to keep from hyperventilating.

“Takes days to go away on its own,” he continues as he pulls himself up right.  Once he’s on his knees he hugs his arms, trying to keep his body from shaking.  His raises his gaze to you, eyes wild and searching.  “It hurts like somethin’ twisted up inside me.  It _burns_.”

“And,” you croak, “and pailing will make it go away?”  He nods.  You can’t believe what you’re hearing.  He’s sick, he needs medical attention or something, not you getting your bulge off.

You have a horrible poker face and he reads the doubt like flashing neon.  “It’s... I’m in heat, Kar.  I need to be bred.”

“HAHA, what!?”  That came out sounding hysterical.  Oh god, oh fucking god, no wonder you’ve been a mixed up stew of runaway flushed emotions.  You’ve been stealth blindsided by a combo of a troll train wreck and mating pheromones.  Suddenly this feels like you’ve been played, but it’s not Eridan’s fault.  Not yours either, but you want to be mad at something.  Empress’ tits, this is so messed up

“Sorry,” he’s babbling again, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Kar, I shouldn’t have-”

“Shut up for a second,” you tell him and he does, mouth snapping closed so fast you think you heard his teeth click.  Your chest hurts and there’s a suspicious prickle behind your eyes, but you shove it all down, back into the corners.  Eridan is already freaked out, he doesn’t need you to lose your shit too.  

“Okay.  Okay, we can deal with this.  Are... you sure you don’t want to, I dunno, tough it out or something?”

You know the answer when his fins droop and he chuckles humorlessly, but he says it anyway.

“I’ve tried.  It’ll get a helluva lot worse than this before it gets better.”

“Right.”  You swallow, try to find words while your brain abandons you to scream in a far corner somewhere.  “Well, it’s whatever you want to do, man.”

He seems at a loss for that.  Just for a minute you sit in silence that isn’t really comfortable, but its not entirely awkward either.  Loaded maybe, like there’s something heavy being weighed.  It might be your conscience.

Finally Eridan gathers himself, stands and shuffle over to you to plop back onto the floor, kneeling with his hands in his lap.  He doesn’t look up directly at you.  Instead he’s staring off the the side, favoring you with a quick glance now and again.

“...Kiss me?” he asks.  You nod.  Lean forward and press your lips to his for a second time today.  It’s quick, mostly chaste, and you pull back again to let him decide the next step.  He sits considering for a moment, then slowly closes the gap between you.

His lips are cool against yours, colder than anything you’ve tasted despite his fever.  You sit with knees touching, trading soft kisses slowly and with no urgency.  Ferocious, crackling pity rekindles hot in your chest and curls right down through you.  You could do this all day.  Forever if he wanted.  It almost startles you when you feel his hands against your thighs as he shifts his weight forward.

“I, um.  I ain’t never done it like this before,” he tells you quietly.  Like how, you aren’t sure.  Slow?  Gentle?  It hurts to think of him being used like a highblood toy, so you shut that thought off completely.

“Whatever you need, just tell me.”  You like the way the color on his fins darken at that.

He hesitates, fidgets anxiously before moving his hands to rest against your chest.  His thumb ghosts over the cuts from earlier and the sting is strangely sweet.  “Lie back?”

As you do, Eridan follows the path of your body downward, pulling himself into your lap.  He’s highblood big.  Anyone else getting this close when you’re unarmed and defenseless, and you would have good reason to be afraid.  Hell, you probably should be now, he could still do things to you that you would never recover from, but he’s all shy sweetness and need.  When he rocks his hips into yours, your bulge sit up and takes renewed interest.

Then he’s on you again, mouth open this time to suck at your lower lip and sliding a hand down to the V of your crotch.  His fingers stroke against your sheath through the fabric, and when he presses down in just the right way you come unsheathed with a gasp.

“Touch me,” he says, bolder, and more demanding.  A ripple of excitement washes over you hearing his confidence make a subtle reappearance.  You’re still careful not to push too far, or take back any control yet, just gently cup the the back of his head while you take his mouth properly.

He _purrs_!  Fuck, that feels good, listening to him enjoy this.  Now you’re doing more; running your fingers through his hair, tracing claws over his spine, caressing him everywhere you can touch skin.  You hardly notice him tugging the fly of your pants down until you feel chilled fingers wrapping around your seeking bulge.  It drags an embarrassing moan out of you.

Eridan toys with you while you squirm, but you don’t rush him, still sensing some lingering uncertainty.  He can’t ignore what his body is driving him to do for long (you want to make it better for him, and you will.  You’ll find a way to fix this, so it’s never not his choice again).  He slides his hand up till he’s grasping the tip, then raises up on his knees to feed it into his puffy nook.  (There’s a slit in those stupid not-pants you realize, and with the implication you decide that the thing is going to be burned once you find him some actual clothes.)

He hisses as he spreads around you and his walls feel swollen.  It’s such a good squeeze you have to focus all your concentration on not coiling and thrashing like instinct says.  He hides his face against your neck, panting in ragged gasps as he lowers himself down onto you.  You hold him until he’s taken you to the root and long after.  You pet his hair and murmur dumb, meaningless sounds, soothing until he stops feeling like he’s going to break apart around you.  The words stutter and die when he tries an experimental roll.

He moves again, careful and slow, and you uncoil and ripple inside him, still trying to keep a tight control.  You feel wetness on your shoulder and realize with a start that he’s started crying again.  It fills you with pity and want that spills over and swallows you.  You kiss and nuzzle his fin.

“Need-” he babbles, “Need... I ... Ooooh fuck, I need you to-  damn it, just fuck me already!”

You can’t.  You want to, but you can’t; if you betrayed him to your own selfish lust now you would be no better than the bastards that had him before you.  There will be time for quick and dirty later, if he still wants anything to do with you after this.  Right now you want to take care of him, more than anything.

So instead you slip one hand down between you, find the space where he’s joined to you and rub at his stretched lips.  He yowls while you trace the line to his sheath and start kneading it with your palm.

“Tell me what you _want_.  I’ll give you everything,” you whisper right into his fin.

“You!”  Eridan practically shrieks, “I want _you_ \- God, Kar, don’t stop!”

You turn your head so you can kiss his cheek, his eye, and taste the salt of him.  “I’ve got you.  not letting go, I’ve got you, you’re safe.”

He makes the most amazing noise as he comes unsheathed into you hand, his bulge twining around your wrist.  A gush of cold fluid drenches your legs as he clenches tight around you, slick with new longing, and you arch into it with a cry.  You both spill your slurry together.

Your brain fucks off for a while after that.  You don’t remember removing your soaked clothes or stumbling over to your pile, but somehow you had managed it.  Eridan clings to you like seaweed and you don’t even mind a little, not even when you wake up later with a leg asleep and drool on your chest.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [XVI - The Tower](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3848392) by [Lord_Turkish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lord_Turkish/pseuds/Lord_Turkish)




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